


click your heels

by spheeris1



Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: Angst, Artifact Misuse, Bittersweet, Dreams, F/F, Family, Gen, Italics Everywhere..., Love, Not A Fix-It, Post Season 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-24
Updated: 2012-06-24
Packaged: 2017-11-08 10:21:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 19,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/442150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spheeris1/pseuds/spheeris1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Myka breaks all of her rules in order to say good-bye.</p><p>Wow. I suck at summaries.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

//

_“So, you’re saying that there is actually an Oz?” Pete asks._

/

Everything, eventually, goes back to normal.

Well… ‘normal’ being a very relative term to use in a world such as theirs; this isn’t Main Street, after all – no green yards lined with white picket fences, no families with two-point-five kids, no lights turned out on another dull day of driveway gossip with the neighbors.

But everything goes back to their kind of normal.

/

_“…Like, with the yellow brick road and the flying monkeys…?”  
“No.”  
“Not even the singing midgets?”_

/

This is normal, too - Pete saying things that can amuse and annoy simultaneously; Artie answering back in a bland and blunt manner. If one were to focus only on this moment, they might sort of forget about all those many weeks ago. It would be as if putting a palm alongside each eye and narrowing the gaze.

A person could look at this singular moment in time and never catch a glimpse of the past.

/

_“No singing midgets. No flying monkeys. No houses falling on anyone, except maybe on you if you do not let me finish.” Artie states with a glare that is one part professional pain and one part familial exasperation._

_Pete gets the hint, as usual, and holds his hands up in a weak defense._

_“Hey, someone was bound to ask and it might as well be me.”_

_Artie sighs. Pete levels a grin towards Myka. Myka’s own lips turn up, briefly, in response._

/

Everything about this moment is normal for the three of them. Everything seems exactly as it once was.

Except, really, everything has changed.

They had a sliver of hope to hang the world on – a pocket watch held gently in Artie’s hand - but the stem-wind refused to be turned. The hands kept on moving and the seconds kept on slipping by; time, as always, carried on and no one could stop it from happening.

Pete was right.

They had lost.

They lost the brick walls and the metal rafters that had become home; they lost thousands of artifacts – not even ashes to remember them by, only memories.

They lost countless miracles and they lost endless possibilities.

They lost it all.

/

_“Go check it out. Do your job.” Artie commands as he hands over blue folders to the both of them.  
“Sure thing.” Pete answers as Myka nods her head in affirmation._

_Artie turns to leave but stops abruptly, looking over his shoulder with the same serious stare that greeted the two Secret Service agents so long ago._

_“And don’t put them on!” Artie sort of barks out the order before resuming his retreat._

_“Yeah, Mykes, don’t get any ideas…” Pete mutters good-naturedly.  
“I think he was talking to you.” Myka says as she starts to walk out of Leena’s, not waiting around to listen when Pete calls after her._

_“Hey! I don’t know what you’ve heard but my feet are so not made for heels!”_

/

This is how normal is supposed to sound and, so, they turn up the volume. Each one of them tries to drown out those other sounds – the falling of tears, the breaking of hearts, and the shattering of intangible feelings. Each one of them strives to be as they once were – and god knows they are failing.

It is the worry that clings to Pete’s voice.

It is the tiredness that pulls at Artie’s body.

It is the sadness that lingers along Leena’s mouth.

It is the anger that colors Claudia’s eyes.

It is the hollowness to all of Myka’s movements, as if she were a ghost in her own life; when her fingers try to find purchase, she catches nothing but air.

So, they all turn up the volume – up, up, up – until the sound of what no longer is around cannot be heard.

/ /


	2. Chapter 2

/ /

What are artifacts without a warehouse in which to keep them in?

This is no riddle to ponder over; the answer is very simple – they are orphans, living in limbo, waiting for a place to finally call home.

Jane tells them that there will be a new warehouse built, that the Regents have not forsaken them – Myka’s eyes instinctually cut to Claudia and Claudia keeps her gaze trained elsewhere – and that things will go back to normal.

And there’s that word again: normal. That word is starting to sound like a joke.

Beyond that, it is business as usual. Secret men and women with secret knowledge come in under the cover of night and turn Leena’s basement into a make-shift storage unit; there are shelves in place and miniature containment areas, there are familiar purple gloves everywhere. Assurance trickles down from one figurehead to another, telling this struggling band of five that all will be just fine – Leena’s Bed & Breakfast will be safe from the artifacts, that it won’t take long to fill up a whole new warehouse, and that the days will pass and the wounds will heal.

Of course, the Regents do not say it like that, not exactly.

They are the true riddles, after all. Power and whispers, lies and trust; notions so closely linked that it can leave a person’s head spinning. Or create a whole lot of bitterness. Or slowly kill off your faith in the ‘greater good’.

But it is business as usual for now.

For now, it is the semblance of routine that they all hold fast to.

/

And so, there is no Land of Oz.

There isn’t a lonely girl, with only her little dog for a companion, just wishing for an escape from the farm. There isn’t a cyclone tearing up the bleached-out plains of Kansas. There is no Scarecrow longing for a brain; no Tin Man desperate for a heart; no Cowardly Lion seeking courage.

There is nothing over the rainbow except more sky.

However, there is the very real case of the ruby-red slippers.

Myka reads over the files as Pete drives down the highway ( _and as Pete sings along to a song on the radio, as Pete stops to get lunch and gets mustard on his jacket, as Pete behaves like Pete_ ) and learns way more than she ever wanted to about ‘The Wonderful Wizard of Oz’.

While she knows about the series of books ( _because there are actually fourteen of them in total_ ), they were not the kind of reading material that her young mind was drawn to. L. Frank Baum’s world seemed terribly childish to Myka – and, even as a child, Myka didn’t like being thought of as a ‘kid’. So, she had no interest in reading a single bit of Baum’s endeavors. She had even less interest in seeing the film adaptation, but if you live long enough, you’ll end up seeing the movie whether you want to or not. She knows all about Dorothy Gale – the role that Judy Garland inhabited, all fresh faced in sepia tones that soon change to blinding Technicolor. She knows all about Toto and the Lollipop Guild and the Wicked Witch of the West.

The assimilation of these facts does not mean that Myka cares; she just too good at retaining information.

Like now, there is a part of her brain that will never forget what she is reading: the shoes in the book were silver, not ruby-red; the author supposedly based the Scarecrow off of a reoccurring nightmare; Baum dedicated that first book to his wife, Maud. But for the purposes of their line of work, Myka places these details to the side and focuses on the shoes.

Artifacts were once just objects – regular, everyday things that no one would look twice at. But if the emotions are strong enough, these inanimate bits of metal or plastic or cloth can take on the total width and breadth of someone’s pain or someone’s passion. Most times, it ends up being a little bit of both elements; the agony and the ecstasy combines into something wonderfully wrong.

_Something so magical can become something so dangerous._

According to the files, Judy Garland was not the happiest of girls during the filming of ‘The Wizard of Oz’. Already used to being a cog in the Hollywood machine, Garland had sacrificed her childhood for the limelight – and the price was a steep one. There was drug addiction and the loss of a father to contend with even before filming began; there were thinly veiled comments from the head of the studio that Garland was too overweight and so they forced her onto a diet ( _she was only sixteen at the time_ ). And while the film turned her from a singing-and-dancing ingénue into a full-fledged star, all the money and fame in existence could not fix what had been broken along the way.

Thus, an artifact was born.

All of that pent-up longing and sorrow seeped down into those ruby-red slippers like water; the soles soaking up every single drop of muted despair. Once the artifact became active, agents working for Warehouse 13 at the time were sent out to retrieve the shoes ( _snag it, bag it, and tag it… just like always_ ).

Of course, it is never that easy. The studio had made countless pairs and each pair found turned out to be a copy or a spare of some sort; a prototype that was never used on set. When the original ruby-red slippers were finally discovered, the ones that had been on Judy Garland’s feet, they had been given – anonymously – to The Smithsonian.

That was in 1979.

A deal was made that allowed the actual pair of shoes to remain in the museum, under lock and key and very watchful eyes.

Well, at least that was the deal until now.

Now, the shoes have been stolen and several comatose people have started popping up. That’s the thing with these ruby-red slippers – once you put them on, they are difficult to get back off again. Once you put them on, you slip away into slumber and waking up is the last thing you want to do.

_And all the dreams that you dare to dream really do come true._

The shoes lure you away from this reality, opening up the chance to live in another world – albeit one that resides solely in the recesses of your mind and in the caverns of your heart. You’ll think that you’ve found somewhere much better than where you are…

_…You’ll start to believe that you’ve gone somewhere over the rainbow after all._

/

Artifacts are not always the primary danger, though.

Sometimes the damage done depends more on the person who is wielding the artifact.

Sometimes, it is a boy who couldn’t walk and who wasn’t saved soon enough; sometimes, it is a woman lost within the passing of the years and still floundering with unending grief.

Sometimes, it is a girl filled up with rage; the kind of rage that comes with losing the only family that ever mattered – a sight never to be unseen, a slumped form in a chair and with skin so blue, so cold to the touch.

And sometimes it is just a person who wants things to be different; a person who wants to wake up and not have to search for what is constantly missing.

Sometimes it is a shattered heart that just doesn’t know how to mend.

/ /


	3. Chapter 3

/ /

_“It’s not the same at all, but… but it’s not totally different either... Does that make sense?”_

/

Bethany Jackson doesn’t look like someone who would want to trade one world for another; there’s a nice car in the driveway and a good job waiting on Monday mornings.

Bethany Jackson has a life, with amiable co-workers and casual friends; she has a gym membership and a wild flower garden in the backyard.

But there are always reasons for the unexplainable things that people do.

There is always a reason why an artifact will send out a siren song to someone – a call that just cannot be ignored.

/

_“…It’s kind of like you’re in the most surreal and most wonderful dream of your entire life, where up can be down and right can be left… and people who are gone are back again. I knew it wasn’t real, I did… but it just didn’t matter…”_

/

Bethany Jackson was only fifteen when her parents died.

Twenty years later and she is still wounded; she still has nightmares with flashing blue lights and crushed metal stained red. Twenty years later and she is still hurting; she is still hoping to one day turn a corner and find her parents alive again.

It could have been simple happenstance that brought the ruby-red slippers into her life.

But on that Saturday, catching a glimpse of the shoes in the window of some pawn shop, it reminded her of the movie. And in thinking about the movie, Bethany’s thoughts turned towards her mother, towards her father, towards the life that was torn away from her so long ago.

Everyone else would call it coincidence but Bethany called it kismet.

/

_“…They were there, just like they used to be. And when I would reach out to, you know, hug one of them… I’d feel their arms around me and… why would I want to come back here? Why would I want to return to a life without them?”_

/

Myka cannot sleep.

This is not the first time that rest hasn’t come easily to her. There have been countless dawns that she has greeted with bleary eyes; too busy pondering the past and too concerned with the future.

Back when Sam died.

Back when she left the Warehouse.

And now there is tonight. Perhaps even several nights before. Maybe more than a few nights last week.

Myka isn’t ready to think about the reasons why she is staying awake, though.

_No, not yet…_

She places bare feet onto the hallway floor, careful of where she steps so as to not alert anyone to her moving around. She has worked out a routine – wait until one or two in the morning then slip downstairs; she’ll proceed to curl up on the couch, turn on the lamp, and read until that familiar sensation of weary heat fills up her gaze. Doing this leaves her too tired to fight against herself, too tired to analyze her feelings, and too tired to sort out all the explanations for her actions.

However, this particular night just isn’t going according to plan.

Midway down the stairs, Myka hears the faint click-click-click of keys being typed upon and she internally debates her next move – to continue on and possibly get into a discussion about why she is up at all? Or to turn around and stare at a dark wall until the sun illuminates it? She runs a hand through her hair and sighs heavily, deciding that a potentially awkward conversation is better than watching the shadows slowly crawl around her bedroom.

Somehow, Myka isn’t too surprised to see that it is Claudia who is sharing her inability to sleep.

Myka watches the younger girl for a moment, a bit of silent observation before announcing her presence; noticing the way red hair falls unceremoniously into the eyes, eyes that are unblinking upon the screen of a softly humming laptop; recognizing the speed at which the fingers move over the keyboard, never once pausing and never missing a beat.

And then Myka’s gaze shifts to the coffee-table where Johann Maelzel’s metronome sits.

It’s the elephant in the room – everyone sees it and yet no one says a word; everyone knows that Claudia’s sadness has metastasized into something far more deadly. But objections seem to dry up on the tongue and preaching about how things will improve ( _one day, someday, it has to…_ ) comes out sounding like the biggest of lies.

Because there is no guarantee that things will get better; there is only the promise that time will continue to move on.

Whether you survive that subtle transition or not is anyone’s guess.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer.”

Claudia has not turned around, nor has she stopped typing on the laptop, but her voice breaks through the fog of quiet around them and Myka directs her stare to the floor anyway – a tad sheepish at being caught.

“What are you up to?” Myka asks softly, taking somewhat hesitant steps towards the back of the couch that Claudia has taken up residence on.

“A little bit of this and that.” Claudia responds, but with an aloof tone to her voice that used to not exist. “What about you, Myka? What’s with the midnight creeper act?”

Myka automatically shrugs her shoulders in reply before she remembers that Claudia is not looking at her, so her voice scrambles to catch up to the inquiry.

“Just not tired I guess.”  
“Seems to be an epidemic around here lately.”  
“What do you mean?”

Claudia shuts the laptop, sitting it beside the metronome, and finally swivels her body around so that the two of them are face-to-face.

“Well, I’ve been up a couple of nights myself. Heard Artie shuffling around aimlessly a few times. And now here you are, awake once more.”

Someone was bound to notice; someone was sure to see a morning met with dark circles under her eyes. And it shouldn’t matter so much to be found out, not when they are all family here – closer than blood, dearer than lovers – but Myka still wraps her arms self-consciously around her stomach.

A small part of the ‘old’ Claudia surfaces in this moment, a raised eyebrow and a hint of warmth around the corners of the mouth; a bittersweet reminder of how things used to be and of how it seems that they will never be that way again.

The sight of it causes Myka’s heart to swell then to break – over and over.

“It’s okay. Your secret is safe with me.” Claudia assures before getting up from the couch and stretching arms high above her head. Myka nods her head lightly in acknowledgment of Claudia’s statement, even as the need to defend her bout of insomnia spills from her lips.

“It’s not like I am trying to hide anything from anyone…”  
“Like I said, it’s okay. I guess we all deal with things in our own way, right?”

And Claudia glances in the direction of the metronome; and Myka tries to find the courage to speak instead of biting her tongue.

“Claudia… about the metronome...”

The glare that hits Myka’s face carries the force of an actual blow; one foot loses ground and moves backwards, as if to duck for cover or – worse than that – to run.

“Let’s not have this conversation, Myka.”

Of course, that is part of the problem; no one is really talking about what has happened. They are all skirting around the subject of loss and of grief. They are all foolishly hoping that the world will have spun itself back to another reality once the sun rises.

They are all stuck in perpetual denial.

And Myka doesn’t know if anything she can say will make a difference because she isn’t dealing well with this tragedy either.

She’s awake when she should be asleep. She’s staring at the same line on the same page until daylight turns the black to gray. She’s holding on to her own laborious memories; holding on to a series of feelings that she is still too terrified to fully define.

_Not yet… Not yet…_

Claudia is right; this is probably a conversation they shouldn’t be having – not at this hour, not with the two of them so worn down and raw – but it appears to be happening anyway.

“Look, Claudia, I know that everything is messed up right now--“  
“Massive understatement.”  
“—but using an artifact is not the way, okay? You know what they can do, you know the harm that they can cause.”  
“And what about the harm that the Regents bring down on us, Myka? What about the way they abandoned Steve?”

_Steve._

It’s not like she doesn’t understand where Claudia is coming from. A place of anguish and anger, beating beneath the bones with a fury that is hard to contain – it used to be a heart but now it is just an organ that remembers things all too well. Myka has never been one to turn in that direction, though. Her course of action tends towards a severe internalizing of emotions; keeping them in check and keeping them at bay, until they are gone – or, at the very least, until she can pretend that they are gone.

Claudia, on the other hand, is combusting with rage and it does not take a genius to figure out what the girl is planning to do with that metronome.

In Steve, Myka lost a fellow agent and someone to trust at her back. But Claudia lost a friend. Claudia lost a part of this family. Claudia lost a connection that meant something.

And Myka knows that Claudia is bound and determined to get that connection back.

“Marcus and Sykes killed Steve.”  
“And Sykes was created by Jane, Myka. How am I supposed to live with the fact that Steve is dead when it could have been prevented? If the Regents had just told us the truth--”  
“He was undercover, Claude… He was trying to save the Warehouse—“  
“Well, that certainly worked out well, didn’t it?”  
“Claudia…just listen to me--”

However, Claudia chooses that moment to forgo the physical boundaries between them and is suddenly much closer than before. Myka isn’t really one for ‘vibes’ as that is more of Pete’s domain, but the way her spine stiffens in response to Claudia’s proximity is telling.

It’s not a sensation of being threatened, though. It is the sneaking suspicion that this conversation, this conversation that they probably shouldn’t be having right now, is about to take a definite turn.

Myka finds that she is actually holding her breath as she waits for the words that will come down.

“I’m bringing Steve back. And don’t you dare tell me that you wouldn’t do the same for someone you truly care for…”

It should be thoughts of Sam that flit through Myka’s head; it should be the man she loved and lost.

“…for someone who died to protect you…”

But it isn’t the image of Sam that plays over and over within Myka’s mind; it isn’t the recollection of Sam that causes Myka’s heart to seize up with pangs of longing and regret.

“…for someone who never knew how you really felt about them.”

Myka feels a stinging sort of pressure start to build behind her eyes – a familiar and agonizing sort of burn that will not go away – and she knows that Claudia has unearthed another revelation tonight. Myka knows that what she has tried so hard to keep concealed has bled through anyway – enough for Claudia to see it, maybe even enough for everyone else to see it, too.

And every ‘not yet’ crumbles to dust when faced with who Myka would save; every ‘not yet’ fades away when faced with who she’d risk everything for.

For Myka, the whole damn world gives way and disappears when faced with Helena G. Wells.

/ /


	4. Chapter 4

/ /

_One day._

/

Despite the exhaustion that hangs upon her body, Myka finds her feet wandering once more – away from Claudia’s words and Claudia’s anger, away from the metronome and its wicked promises, away from the faint lamp light and well-worn pages that have kept Myka company for nights on end – and she ends up in the basement.

It is there, as she is surrounded by a darkness that is punctuated periodically by the faint glow of purple, that the weariness finally kicks in. And so Myka reaches back, palm sliding against the cool brick wall until the rest of her follows; the rest of her, slowly sinking onto the equally chilled floor and dissolving into the shadows.

It is there, with recently found wonders sitting dormant on metal shelves and the cobwebs creating artistic landscapes in every corner, that the giving in finally occurs, too.

And Myka closes her eyes.

And Myka inhales deeply; so deep that her chest shudders with the effort.

And Myka doesn’t make another sound, even as that heat behind her eyelids breaks free and turns into tears; she keeps this sorrow silent, she keeps this moment of fracture private from everyone else – sharing it only with the artifacts and the bricks and her own battered heart.

It is there, with Myka too tired to hide and with no one left to protect from the obvious, that the feelings rush in like a flood – _it is the Warehouse turned to dust, it is Mrs. Frederic’s body reduced to a sunken-in corpse, it is Steve’s frozen gaze, it is Helena’s smile eclipsed by a blinding white light_ – and Myka is carried away on a tide she has been fighting since this madness began.

She isn’t one to sob uncontrollably.

She isn’t one to heave up the sadness, leaving her throat sore with the pain.

She isn’t the kind of person to fall completely apart.

But the cracks have spread all the same. And these imperfections, made manifest in sleeplessness and in a subtle refusal to deal with what has happened, have grown into rifts too wide to ignore tonight.

Tonight, Myka can no longer deny the reality that she is living in; it is the sort of honesty that goes down rough and lands in the pit of her stomach, cold and unmovable. But the real sucker punch still manages to sneak up on Myka, swiftly stealing the air from her lungs and effectively pinning her to the ground.

_There will never be another chance to say all that I wanted to say to her._

And it is there, as Myka’s gaze reopens directly upon a pair of glittering ruby-red slippers, that circumstance marries with remorse and a crazy kind of opportunity arises.

And everyone else would call it a coincidence.

But, of course, Myka knows better.

/

_One day and not a single second more._

/

Bethany Jackson was unconscious for almost five days.

And, conceivably, she could have remained under for a few more days and still been relatively safe. Studies have shown that a person can survive for up to ten days without water - if they are in good health and if the surrounding temperatures are ideal ( _not too cold, not too hot – as in a childhood tale_ ). To go further than ten days, however, is to risk permanent damage to vital organs and to the brain; and for many who have put on the ruby-red slippers, rescue did not come in time and a corpse was the end result.

Bethany was lucky, though; lucky that her boss cared enough to call the police when she didn’t turn up for work after three days and lucky that her condition came up on the Warehouse radar when it did. But Myka recalls the expression on Bethany’s face when they brought her out of that artifact-induced state – and it wasn’t the look of someone who felt lucky.

It was a look of complete loss; as if everything that ever mattered had been stripped away in seconds, as if death would’ve been an acceptable trade-off for a few more moments spent in a glorious dream.

It was the look of someone who wanted to stay asleep, even if that meant to sleep forever.

Unlike Bethany, though, Myka wants so badly to wake up ( _from this wreckage, from this silence, from this mess we are all in_ ) and therein lays the difference between the two women.

For Myka, this wouldn’t be about giving up one existence for another.

She knows that the shoes merely create a fantasy and nothing more. And Myka knows that artifacts are always just a facsimile of the real thing, with each item like an elaborate magic trick; sawing a lady in half or rabbits out of a top hat – artifacts are masters of illusion.

And peril only comes if you are deluded enough to believe in what those slights-of-hand show you – that’s when you will be lost.

Myka knows better, though... she knows better than to fall for those traps.

/

_Just a chance to really say good-bye, just a chance to tell her how I feel… Just one day, that’s all…_

/

It’s not that hard to come up with a plan; it’s not that difficult to construct a small lie and then carry it out.

But, then again, it isn’t the easiest of things to do either. Not when she looks up from the table, breakfast barely touched, and catches the tail-end of Pete’s concerned stare. Not when her eyes meet Artie’s and Myka is the one who must eventually look away from the wondering shade to his gaze.

They are family, after all; it is possible that they suspect something bigger is going on but Myka doubts that they could ever imagine what she is going to do. Instead, the disquiet that Pete or Artie may feel when Myka is around blooms into full-grown worry when Claudia comes into a room. And so Myka is safe from too much inspection because of a stronger distraction; she is still trusted to be the one who can sort out sanity from the rubble of emotion, she is still seen as the ‘big sister’ who won’t run away – at least, not again.

Of course, these notions are as true as they are false and Myka is fully aware of the contradictions that live inside of her. She depends on the rules and regulations so often, to give structure where others fall into chaos. And, yet, there are so many times when she has just thrown all that stability away – and it always comes down to her heart; unruly and wild, like ivy choking out the flowers, feelings taking over when caution would be more prudent.

_Like with Sam. Like with Helena._

Myka has learned to keep these conflicting actions a secret, mostly, but that is one trick that Claudia has yet to learn – and probably never will. Where Myka internalizes, Claudia eviscerates. In a way, Myka is envious of the younger woman because anger – while unpredictable and potentially cataclysmic – can be a far quicker way to deal with the ache of melancholy.

_You can burn it out – the weeping and the emptiness and the injustice of it all – and then, bizarrely, you can start anew... forests out of ashes or a phoenix out of the flames._

With the type of mourning that Myka just cannot accept, but that she just cannot let go of either, going forward seems like the most impossible idea of all.

_You become stuck in a moment that has ended. You become a shadow of yourself, living only to remember._

But, in both cases, most people will do whatever they have to in order to set things right again.

For Claudia, that is the metronome and every possibility – good or bad – that comes with it. And so Claudia is somewhat correct in thinking that she and Myka are exactly alike; they are both seeking out some form of closure in a manner that is not fitting of a Warehouse agent. However, Claudia wants to actually bring Steve back from the dead; she wants to alter the path that reality has taken, regardless of how it might affect the world at large, regardless of how it might affect a resurrected Steve Jinks as well.

For Myka, though, this isn’t about bringing anyone or anything back.

Myka knows that she won’t be able to turn back any clocks or reset any dials on this journey. There is no way for her to erase the past and make it into something brand new; there isn’t some device that can roll back the hours and help her to capture those precious minutes before everything went to hell.

As the saying goes, what’s done cannot be undone.

But these Shakespearian-like troubles can be soothed – without tampering with what has been or what will be. These endless evenings can be put to rest and these longings still caged can be freed; eyes finally opening upon a dawn without regret.

And maybe it’ll be a little bit painful, this fairy-tale farewell; maybe it’ll be a little bit beautiful, too. Maybe it won’t be perfect, maybe not by a long shot… but it’ll be better than what Myka has been left with.

And Myka knows better than to ask for anything more than that.

/ /


	5. Chapter 5

/ /

Oddly enough, it the aftermath that Myka thinks of as she actually touches the shoes for the first time.

Artie will be full of fatherly-like disappointment. Pete will wear that wounded look so well, one that she has seen before and one that she has been the cause of, too. Leena will look away, askance gaze heavy with whatever aura she has seen about Myka’s body.

But it is Claudia that Myka hopes to avoid after all of this is said and done.

For that is where truths will continue to topple forth without much effort – in Claudia’s eyes, all the hypocrisy of Myka’s words and Myka’s actions will fall to the floor and shatter for the whole world to see. No longer hidden by older years and previous losses; no longer shielded with by-the-book phrases always spoken.

Running away to her father’s bookstore won’t just be seen as an aberration anymore; it’ll be the signpost that everyone should have heeded – Myka included.

Suddenly, though, a heat spreads over her hand. It starts at the tips of her fingers and then that warmth travels along each line upon her palm. By the time it winds its way around her wrist, Myka knows that she is slipping under the artifact’s spell.

And the urge to pick up the other shoe is overwhelming, so Myka tells herself to not fight this impulse.

After all, that is why she is here – in this hotel room, in a town with a name she cannot remember, with her Farnsworth turned off, with the door locked and with the ‘do not disturb’ sign on the outside knob.

Myka is here to break some rules, to find some peace of mind.

And that is one path she must walk alone.

/

_Slipping downstairs, quieter than she has ever been, and shadows are thrown onto each wall that she passes – beyond the living room, beyond the entrance to the kitchen, beyond the boundaries she once swore to never cross._

_And into the basement._

_Myka half expects Mrs. Frederic to show up, to catch her with that impenetrable stare and chastise without a single word uttered._

_Of course, that isn’t going to happen. Not anymore._

_And if her feet were nervous for a moment, if her rational side was trying to speak up, it is the fact that Mrs. Frederic won’t be materializing from around some corner that pushes Myka forward._

_It is a cramped room instead of a cavernous warehouse. It is a face no longer smiling between Claudia and Pete. It is a locket never to be returned to its rightful owner; a piece of the past, heavy with old tears and new sorrow, buried beneath stories that Myka isn’t sure she’ll ever read again._

_It is all of these things that make her enter the correct code, that make her put on the purple gloves and that make her remove the ruby-red slippers from confinement and into her possession._

_It is the nights without rest. It is the specter that she has become. It is the grief that she cannot handle._

_Slipping out the door, barely breathing as she gets behind the wheel of her car, and headlights kept off for just a little while – beyond the front porch, beyond the line of trees along the drive, beyond any chance of being found out._

_And into the unknown._

/

Then Myka is putting the ruby-red slippers on, no longer cognizant of anything beyond this current act.

And the faint sounds around this room go mute as the heat finally covers her entire form – feet to legs, legs to torso, torso to head. It is not an uncomfortable sensation, not really; it is a lot like coming in from the cold, face becoming flushed due to the sudden onslaught of warmth.

Her eyelids flutter. Her shoulders sag. She feels weightless, as if all the ligaments and all the tendons have been cut loose – like a kite let go of, traveling on nothing but atmosphere.

/

_Bethany Jackson didn’t want to return._

_That’s what Myka keeps reminding herself of as she drives through the night; that’s the knowledge that Myka must retain if she is going to do this right._

_And many of the others that the shoes sought out, in pain and in need, they didn’t want to come back to this world either. They wanted to stay with those flickering images of the mind; to live out in dreams what could not be in the cold light of day. They wanted to sift through the longings of their hearts and find purchase on figments of joy – no matter the blood that would slow in their veins, no matter the atrophy that their muscles would descend into, no matter that the body would shut down and leave the brain to be the last hold-out of a person about to die._

_Myka doesn’t want to die, though._

_She wants to wake up._

_She wants to wake up in a better world._

_And it is not lost on Myka just how achingly familiar that particular sentiment is._

/

Now Myka’s thoughts become a jumble, unable to stay with one because she is moving too quickly to another. It is as if her mind is made of endless rows of dominos and someone has finally pushed them all down – tumbling, tumbling, tumbling.

It is a flash of the sealed-up note she left with the hotel clerk behind the counter, a way to contact Pete if things should go horribly wrong in this hotel room. It is a glimpse of guns drawn, many times over; a glimpse of hard stares that hide everything and that hide nothing at all. It is the mirror in her childhood bedroom, reflecting every single awkward moment - each one of them caught in a young girl’s red-rimmed gaze.

It is laughter. It is silent weeping. It is mornings and it is stars. It is kisses once given and it is looks that once lingered. It is every scrap of danger and it is every second of calm.

It is Myka’s whole life, racing ever faster by her side and there is no way that she can keep up.

/

_It comes to her within another voice, that sentiment – a memory trapped somewhere between tombstones and forever. It comes to her within irony and awareness now, those sad syllables covered up in bronze and floating off of time-travelled lips._

_That sentiment comes to Myka wrapped up so heavily in Helena – the curve of the mouth, the wave of black hair, the nearness of thighs and of arms upon that concrete bench, and the desperation in those dark eyes..._

_It is that sentiment that rips away the last of Myka’s doubts._

/

And so Myka falls back, asleep before she even reaches the mattress below.

/ /


	6. Chapter 6

: : :

“We all have our time machines, don't we? Those that take us back are memories...And those that carry us forward are dreams.”*

The words pass over Myka’s tongue as if she has been repeating them for days.

And then she opens her eyes.

And everything is white – from underneath her booted feet to the ice-covered mountaintops in the distance – nothing but winter for miles and miles.

It is beautiful and pristine, like a photograph with startling detail, and Myka fears that to reach out – to try and touch the crystalline surface – would shatter it all. So, she tilts her head back and looks at the sky instead; she pins her gaze upon the distinct movement of snow-flakes through the air and how the wind seems to blow all around her but not a hair on her head is disturbed.

Somewhere, hidden between the cortices, is the knowledge that none of this is real.

And then the breeze carries that knowledge away again.

“Well, are you coming in or not?” A very familiar voice questions from behind Myka and a small smile automatically forms on her lips as she turns around.

And then that smile grows, blossoming outward to the point that her cheeks ache with the happiness, because Artie’s head is peeking around that slightly rust-covered door of the Warehouse; the Warehouse, intact once more and looming over Myka like a metal behemoth, beckons her feet to move from where they stand – pulled forth even now, much like she once was, so long ago…

“Pete is busy playing with artifacts again and I need another adult to help rein him in.” Artie continues, opening the door wider for Myka to enter. She allows her fingers to graze over everything that she passes – the edge of corners, the heads of bolts, railings and wooden slats and very solid walls by her side.

A sudden touch to her arm catches her attention.

“Everything okay?” Artie asks, with a caring that she has always suspected but with an openness that has always been reticent in being shown. It reminds her, briefly, of a fantasy from the past – trapped in an ancient game of the desert, where wishes led to one’s demise.

_But that was ages ago, wasn’t it? That was another lifetime… wasn’t it?_

All Myka can manage, though, is a quick nod of her head in response to Artie’s softly spoken inquiry and then they are moving once more.

And it is seamless how things transition from one point to another.

Myka is walking to a destination and then, within the blink of an eye, she is there.

She is there, watching as Pete gets chastised but is still wearing that happy-go-lucky grin the whole time – that grin that neither time nor distress could ever tarnish. She is there as Claudia comes into the room, that hard-won Farnsworth open and sentences coming out a mile a minute – only happiness on the girl’s face and not a trace of all that anger, of all that endless hurting. Myka is there, in the Warehouse, and it is like the building itself is overflowing with emotion – but only the good kind; only the best, only the finest.

“Okay, Claude, maybe slow it down this time… I don’t want to have to break out the warp drive just to understand you.” Pete says as he continues to toy with an artifact and as Artie continues to bat the man’s hands away from said artifact.

Claudia rolls her eyes in a very pointed manner but the action does not seem to dim her excitement as she shimmies the Farnsworth back and forth in her hand.

“Just got the word from Steve. He and H.G. are heading back now, should be here in the next thirty minutes or so.”

And for a second, Myka remembers some things she'd rather not.

For a second, her body sort of teeters backwards and there is a sharp pain to the front of her head; it’s like she has been hit and Myka sort of wants to crumble to the ground, sort of wants to squeeze her eyes shut and never open them again.

For a second, reality filters back in and destroys this tenuous illusion of the mind.

“Myka…? Myka, are you all-right?”

And Myka knows that voice.

And she knows that it has been much less than thirty minutes, she knows that there is nothing left of the Warehouse, she knows that this is a wonderful and terrible sort of fiction being told…

Oh, Myka knows all of these things and so much more.

But the agony melts away at the sound of that voice and the pain chooses to leave Myka’s body in the form of a sob-laden gasp. And without a single care as to who might see it, Myka shoots forward as if spring-loaded and wraps her arms around a suddenly very much alive Helena.

It is a fierce embrace, with the muscles in her arms almost shaking due to the strength of her hold; it is a fevered sort of desperation that causes Myka to cling to the startled woman in her grasp but Myka cannot seem to give a damn about appearances right now.

Pete is saying something along the lines of ‘How come I never get a welcome back like that, huh?’ But Myka is tuning them all out – tuning out Steve and Claudia as they joke with one another, tuning out Pete as he jumps into their conversation, tuning out Artie as he reminds everyone of reports to write and of artifacts to correctly catalogue.

All she can hear is Helena’s breathing, steady and sure and present.

_Oh God, this seems so real… Is it? Am I actually dreaming or…?_

All she can feel is the shift of arms as they slowly return this unexpected envelopment.

_This isn’t due to some artifact, is it? This is truly happening… isn’t it?_

“Tell me you are all-right.” Helena whispers into Myka’s ear.

And warm air curls over the skin, running down deep into Myka’s bones. And that sensation settles an ache in Myka’s soul, an ache that has been around for such a long time now – so long that it has felt a part of her more so than it has not.

_Am I all-right? Am I okay? Am I awake? Am I still asleep? …But those are questions from a lifetime ago…_

_…Aren’t they?_

And, right now, all Myka can see and hear and feel is Helena.

And, right now, that is all that matters.

“I am so much better than all-right.” Myka answers in return.

: : :

“C’mon people, we can all hug it out later. Time to hear about—“Artie begins but then Pete interrupts.   
“H.G. and Steve’s excellent adventure?” Pete suggests and a ripple of chuckling moves throughout the room.

Myka can even feel that vibration of humor move along Helena’s form. It starts in the woman’s shoulders as they very lightly shake and then it is a delicate push of air from Helena’s lips – an exhalation of amusement that hits Myka’s senses, turning a brief soundwave into something like a caress.

And Myka isn’t able to stave off the shiver that races along her spine.

Helena pulls away gently from their embrace, but not without a curious glint to her dark eyes, and Myka has no other response than to blink rapidly at the woman. Then there is the faintest bit of contact, Helena’s smooth fingertips to the top of Myka’s hand, drawing Myka’s attention to a fine point – a sensory landmark that causes her breath to catch.

“I think you and I should talk later.” Helena states in a soft voice.

And Myka, just as softly, agrees.

Then the rest of the room comes back into full focus and Myka notices that another continuous bit of motion has happened, taking them all from standing up to sitting down around a table – Pete as a comfortable presence to her left and Helena as a not-unpleasant tension to her right.

And while those feelings are quite similar to the ones Myka once had in that other world, in this world… well, the faces are the same and the personalities are familiar – but things are very different indeed.

_Such as Artie’s treatment of Helena…_

“First off, Steve, excellent retrieval of that artifact.” Artie says with a pleased expression on his face.   
“I couldn’t have done it without H.G.” Steve replies, tossing a gracious smile towards the British woman. Helena inclines her head in acknowledgement.   
“We make a good team.” Helena confirms with a self-satisfied grin and Artie seems to match that grin with one of his own.   
“Well, both of you did a good job… and especially when the press showed up.”

Steve shakes his head ruefully and holds up his hands.

“That was all H.G. I hate dealing with reporters so she let me lurk in the shadows.” Steve explains and Helena reaches over to pat the younger man on the arm. And Myka finds her own lips curving upwards in a smile because the gesture is so friendly, so full of comradery.

The sight of it causes Myka’s heart to soar in a way that she has sorely missed.

“Some charm and some wit and the vultures will lap up whatever you hand them.” Helena offers her solution to dealing with ‘ambulance chasers’ and that’s when Myka finally takes note of what is being said.

_Such as the outside world knowing about the Warehouse…_

“Wait… what reporters?” Myka questions aloud, earning a cursory glance from everyone around her.

“You know, Mykes, like that time we had to do that press conference in jolly ol’ England? I swear, I have never seen a face go as red as when the Queen told every newspaper about Myka in that bearskin cap…” Pete trails off with that story as he starts to chuckle.

But Claudia joyfully picks up where the man has left off, sporting a pretty bemused smile of her own.

“Oh, I’ve sent out several emails with that conference link attached. I think it has had over a million hits on You Tube, too.” Claudia confirms and while Myka cannot remember something that has not truly happened to her, the pervading sense of professional shame is flooding her senses nonetheless.

“Oh, God…” Myka mutters quietly, not even wanting to know what a dream-state her might have done.

“Hey, it was hilarious, Mykes. No need to be shy about it. I mean, we’ve all seen each other in some state of undress—“  
“Oh. God.” Myka repeats louder this time and with an audible groan of discomfort added on.

This brings on a nice round of laughter at her expense and Myka lowers her head as the very distinct sensation of a blush seems to bloom over her face. But then there is a pressure against her thigh, just above the knee, and Myka’s gaze shifts from the floor to the hand against her leg.

Myka’s eyes study the pale fingers, how they flex – just the once – in a supportive squeeze; as if to say that things are fine and that embarrassment is not warranted, as if to remind Myka that she is amongst family here.

And Myka wants to hold on to the hand that is upon her leg.

And so she does.

Myka looks over, ever so slowly, to witness Helena’s reaction. But the woman’s stare is more shrewd than curious this time - as if the wheels are already turning within that fascinating British brain. And Myka realizes that the lines between dream and reality are blurring even more as this Helena continues to evolve into the Helena that Myka remembers so well.

“Well, with this case, I’d say you get several gold stars, Helena.” Artie’s voice cuts through Myka’s thoughts and breaks Helena’s steady gaze.   
“Ah, my favorite reward for a job well done.” Helena responds with a cheeky sort of smile and, again, Artie follows suit with his own knowing smirk – like this is the usual kind of banter between the two of them, like there is a respect and a trust between the two of them in this realm.

Myka feels her own hand tighten, ever so slightly, around Helena’s hand.

_It could have always been this way… it could have been this way the whole damn time._

And there is that pain again; that pain that seems to suck all the energy from Myka’s body and leaves her feeling like the weight of the entire universe is lying on her chest, crushing her bit by bit. It is a second of miserable knowledge that causes her eyes to squint, causes her to silently watch while the surroundings go from crisp to mute – all in an effort to escape this sense of reality forever waiting in the wings.

But time within the dream speeds up even more during those agonizing occasions – just like thirty minutes turns to seconds, a talk with everyone around turns to lights going off… one by one… until the Warehouse is almost totally dark and until almost everyone is gone.

Except for the faint glow around endless artifacts.

Except for Helena and Myka, hands still comfortably intertwined with one another.

: : :

Myka has no clue how they got here.

She has no recollection of walking through the Warehouse – it is only the feeling of Helena’s palm, warm against her own, that Myka recalls.

She has no memory of the endless stairs they had to have climbed – it is only the sensation of the air around them growing cooler and cooler that Myka remembers.

Myka has no clue how they got here.

But these things don’t really matter to Myka, not when she looks over and sees Helena’s profile - all pale against the never-ending nighttime sky. It doesn’t matter how they got here, seemingly a million miles from the ground below and on top of the Warehouse.

_Because logic has no home here, does it?_

“There is, though I do not know how there is or why there is, a sense of infinite peace and protection in the glittering hosts of heaven.”**

Helena’s dulcet tones blend in with the darkness, weaving around Myka’s entire being in a way that is almost magical…

“Myka, look up and see.”

…And then the real magic begins.

Myka pulls her eyes away from the side of Helena’s face reluctantly and then carries her view upwards, head tilting back and back until all she can see is the sky above them. And she has seen stars before – during summer evenings and peering through telescopes – but they have never looked like this; they have never appeared this close or this bright before.

“And there’s Vulpecula in the distance, chasing its luminous tail…”

Helena’s voice is nearer now, brushing against Myka’s cheek in a manner smooth and inviting.

“Then again, perhaps it is poor Ansere that Vulpecula is hunting down tonight. A wild but beautiful goose chase…” Helena muses, letting the words hang there as greens and blues invade the shadows, filling up this canvas of black with technicolor.

“It’s an aurora. I’ve never seen one.” Myka whispers, head leaning back even further and pupils dilating in order to take in the vastness of this display. Helena makes a small ‘tsk-tsk’ sort of noise in response.

“Oh no, Myka, it is not just any aurora – it’s Vulpecula. Foxes are extremely vain creatures, you know… and we won’t get a good show if we don’t praise the little beast more than that.”

Myka feels a grin spread over her face and, somehow, she knows that Helena is grinning, too.

And so Myka closes her eyes and opens her arms wide as she shouts out her thanks to some Scandinavian myth from hundreds and hundreds of years ago. Helena’s surprised laugh is enough to get Myka chuckling as well, gaze slowly re-opening upon the aurora still in progress. They allow the humor to drift off as quickly as it came and then it is quiet once more, with Myka continuing to watch the sky even as she can feel the heated sensation of Helena’s stare move across her face – studying her in a way that could make others uncomfortable, as if they were some new oddity under the microscope. But Myka does not feel uneasy; if anything, she is relishing the attention in a way she never fully granted in that other world.

“I must admit, Agent Bering, that you seem so…”   
“Soooo… what?”   
“So not like yourself tonight.” Helena concludes and a deeper sort of smile tugs on Myka’s lips in response because – even in a dream world – Helena G. Wells is not one to be so easily fooled.

“And what would you say if I agreed with you, Agent Wells?”

Myka finally turns away from the aurora and is greeted with one of her most cherished of Helena’s expressions: it is that smile, the one that could come off as incredibly egotistical, but somehow – to Myka – was always a very welcomed sight; that smile means that Helena is in her element, that the woman is full of confidence and not at all shy to speak her mind.

And Helena does not disappoint in the slightest with her answer, delivered with the perfect mixture of calm certainty and an air of cockiness – so completely Helena.

“I would say that I am a master of observation, of course.”

Myka can only roll her eyes good-naturedly as the woman then gracefully lowers herself to the rooftop and gently pats the spot beside of her, beckoning silently for Myka to join. Once the two of them are settled – legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle; mirroring one another all the way down to the placement of the hands, palm-down against the metal surface – they keep looking up instead of looking at each other.

“Do you come up here a lot?” Myka asks as the aurora seems to grow brighter and, for just a moment, illuminates everything around them in a wave of emerald; the surrounding mountains have been turned into gleaming castles of iridescent green.

And it reminds Myka of a story she knows, somewhere… somewhere in that other world…

_Somewhere over the—_

“No, not very often.”

Helena’s answer halts wherever Myka’s mind was heading, returning her to this rooftop and to the Warehouse so firm beneath them. And Myka blinks as if coming out of a trance, finding the colors duller than just seconds ago – the mountains are in shadow again and the aurora is close to burning out, green and blue trails being pulled across the sky to the point of fading.

“There are times, though, when a particular problem needs extra attention and I will come up here to ruminate for a while.” Helena continues on with her reply, so Myka decides to do a bit of peripheral glancing as the woman talks.

And she sees the ivory of a Helena’s extended neck in swatches of disappearing light; she sees the edges of tumbling locks of hair that then melt into the surrounding twilight, she sees red lips moving – almost languidly – as they curve over words and let them pass.

And now Myka is no longer just glancing, she is blatantly staring at this woman beside of her – Helena’s head still tilted back towards the stars as she speaks, probably very much aware of the intense scrutiny she has fallen under but, apparently, content to allow it.

“Or, sometimes, when I want to feel a bit closer to Christina… I think she would have loved the view from up here.” 

And Myka holds her breath as if the wound were her own – _Helena’s pain reached out with long claws in that other world, didn’t it? Didn’t Helena’s anguish nearly ruin me in that other world?_

But here, at the top of this fantastical universe, those days are the far-flung nightmares; hazy and unfocused images that fall apart before they can ever take root.

Here, Helena is beyond the grief as those lips slowly upturn into a sly sort of smile.

“And sometimes, Myka, it is simply a chance for me to share something lovely with you.”

It is just an inch, at first, but Myka feels her body moving – like ripples over silver water, slow and subtle – and she is moving towards Helena; moving towards Helena as if the woman were the sun and Myka a bud about to bloom.

“A chance to see your ‘glittering hosts of heaven’, hmm?” Myka murmurs as the rest of her body shifts with a purpose so clear and so definite. And they are near enough now that Myka can see those dark eyelashes flutter downward in a brief second of demureness, which only entices Myka to draw closer and closer still.

“I suppose I am as vain as that fox up in the sky.” Helena says with a soft grin playing about her lips and then the woman is lowering her head, causing strands of hair to fall down about her face.

And they are wondrously close to one another, with only seconds of air between them, but it is not nearly close enough for Myka – _I want more, I need more_ – and so Myka’s hand sets out to rectify this matter in the only way that makes any sense. She pushes Helena’s hair back from one side of the woman’s face and threads her fingers through those black locks, allowing the gentle movement to bring Helena’s head around.

Once their eyes meet, Myka slips her hold from those midnight tresses and it is the smooth surface of Helena’s cheek that Myka finds.

“I would say that both you and Vulpecula are allowed to brag just a bit.”

Myka’s voice is so quiet now, a hush that barely makes a dent in the nighttime around the two of them. Helena’s easy chuckle in response is just another instance of otherworldly gravity at work – pulling and pulling, like a tide to the inevitable shore – and Myka can feel each breath that leaves Helena’s mouth against her own skin.

“Flattery will not cause me to forget, Myka.” Helena states in a manner that is both lightly chastising and affectionately amused. But Helena is also leaning into this touch that Myka has instigated, giving clearance with actions while words still try to keep matters well in hand.

“Forget what?” Myka’s question comes out rather breathless, though, because even air would have a hard time figuring out where to fit between them now – _she is so close to me, we are so very, very close…_

“That you are not quite like yourself tonight.”

Helena’s answer floats past Myka’s ears, heard but not fully recognized, as Myka moves completely into the other woman’s personal space – faces side by side, hand still upon the cheek, lips brushing delicately where the jaw rises up to meet the temple.

“What if I told you that all of this is just a dream?” Myka whispers as darkness finally reaches this moment, blanketing them from the brightest of stars and from the wildest of cosmic spectacles – leaving a world where only the two of them exist.

“…Then it is my wish to remain dreaming for as long as I possibly can.”

With Helena’s quietly spoken words, any distance between them is rendered meaningless as Myka leans back – just a fraction – and then brings their lips together in a kiss.

And if Myka could actually talk to bursts of charged energy, if she could actually say just one thing to some ancient animal running rampant across the atmosphere, it would be this:

_Vulpecula, your beauty does not hold a candle to the perfection that is Helena’s lips pressed to mine._

: : :

And it is just Myka and Helena kissing, for the first time ever.

And so a conveniently forgotten ember banked down deep in Myka’s gut comes to life. Myka feels on fire from the inside out and Helena is both the source and the salvation; Helena is the fuel onto this inferno and the only oasis around for miles and miles.

_There is nothing else in this world – no brushstrokes of color from a fox’s tail, no constellations hanging low enough to touch, no shining mountain peaks in the distance, no hard rooftop underneath us…_

One of Helena’s hands cups Myka’s jaw, soft but sure, and then Helena’s other hand slips along the nape of Myka’s neck – another anchor to this ship that has no desire to leave.

And with the subtle flick of Helena’s tongue against her own, Myka begins to unravel at a much more rapid pace.

_…and there is nothing of that other world either – no bombs, no death, no sadness, no loss, no pain, no anger, no worry and no weariness and no more feeling like all I’ve done is waste so much time._

Myka releases a moan and it echoes off the endless night around them before it reverbs back into her own ears, spelling out just how incredibly turned on she is. And so Myka’s hand leaves Helena’s face, fingers tripping over themselves to find more flesh to hold and to lay claim to and—

: : :

“Hel-looo, Earth to Myka! Artifact at two o’clock, close to the surprisingly hot janitor-lady, and Buzz Lightyear is incoming so, you know, time to choose your own adventure, Mykes.”

Pete’s voice bursts into her right ear with a crackle of static and that’s when Myka’s eyes shoot open.

Instead of nighttime on the Warehouse roof, though, Myka’s gaze is met with blinding daylight within a building she does not recognize at all.

_I am torn away from kissing Helena for… for... whatever is going on here? That's just great..._

However, Myka really doesn’t have much time to comprehend this rather annoying shift in dreamscapes because someone shoulders past her in a rush, nearly knocking her over in the process.

“Okay, fine. Make me choose the adventure.” Pete’s voice buzzes into her right ear again.

And while Myka’s mind is still playing rather badly at catch-up, her body goes into auto-pilot. Her legs are already moving as she watches Pete slide into action – Tesla out and pointing it at some man in what appears to be a knock-off spacesuit. Myka then looks around the room until she reaches that invisible ‘two o’clock’ and her eyes land on a pair of boots.

Myka starts digging around in the jacket she didn’t even realize she had on and finds a pair of purple gloves. The astronaut guy starts saying something about the Moon, about massive government cover-ups, and about other things that remind Myka – briefly – of that television show from the 90’s.

_I think it was The X-Files..._

“I’m Buzz Aldrin! Those are mine!” The man yells out, pointing at the boots.   
“At least I got the ‘Buzz’ part right.” Pete says with a grin, Tesla still pointed directly at the man’s chest.

Myka just shakes her head, a small grin of her own now present, as she reaches out and holds each boot away from the other.

“But they belong to me!” The man continues to lament, shaking his puffy white hands in a rage – which is more amusing than it is life-threatening.   
“Well, I got here first, Buzz… so I guess that makes me Neil Armstrong.” Pete finishes with a pleased smile and a wink aimed at Myka.

Of course, that comment just sets off another tirade from the man in the spacesuit and Myka finds herself getting pretty irritated with this artifact retrieval already.

_Especially since I was just dropped into it. Especially since it interrupted something pretty spectacular._

“Pete, where’s the--”  
“To your right and behind the wall.”

Instead of one of the neutralizing bags, it is one of the neutralizing tanks. And, instead of the lid just opening like it is supposed to, it gets wedged stuck – one side halfway off, the other side still caught in the grooves.

“Oh for crying out loud…” Myka mutters to herself as she gingerly sits the boots down onto the floor so that she can fight with the neutralizing tank lid.

Sitting the boots down, however, turns out to be the wrong thing to do.

: : :

Did Pete take his eyes off of spacesuit-man for a split second in order to smile flirtatiously at the hot janitor-lady? Was Myka a tad irresponsible in letting the artifact out of her grasp – if only for just a moment – and thus tempting an already unstable man into action? And just how did a Tesla blast end up going into one of the walls, causing the hot janitor-lady to scream and dive to the ground… and then somehow come into contact with one of Buzz Aldrin’s boots?

Of course, when asked about it later ( _by actual annoying-as-hell reporters_ ), Myka refused to confirm or deny certain aspects to the calamity that ensued.

And so the phrase ‘no comment’ quickly becomes Myka’s new favorite thing to say.

: : :

There is no tell-tell sound of tires on pavement, no rattling of doors over potholes, and not a single gust of wind pushing against the glass. It is just silence as she and Pete float down the road, Buzz Aldrin’s boots in the back-seat and the bothersome questions of various news outlets left far behind them.

Trees and sunlight whip by, just flashes of color, and Myka almost wishes she could slow things down – to stop and see if the air carries any sort of scent to it, to see if she can hear birds cutting a path across this alternate-world sky.

_I almost wish for more than one day..._

“So I’ve got my excuse, Myka… what’s yours?”

Pete’s voice, no longer trapped within a device pressed firmly into her ear, is somewhat quieter this time around – not as startling, definitely not as static-y. Her head, suddenly lazy upon the head-rest, turns in his direction as if she were a tape being played at the slowest of speeds.

“Excuse about what?”  
“About how our artifact retrieval turned into a three-ring-circus. I mean, don’t get me wrong… it was all pretty hilarious. And it wasn’t so bad that I ended up having to put some wrestling moves on Tamara—“  
“Who is Tamara?”  
“Hot janitor-lady.”  
“When did you have the time to get her name?”  
“Myka, please. I am no amateur in this department. One look from me and all the ladies want to know this secret agent man.”

And then Pete is smiling. And so is Myka. And it is so much like it used to be ( _before destruction, before sadness_ ), it is so much like they have always been with one another ( _two separate people who are in on the same joke_ ).

“You know, when I first met you, you were such a tight-ass.”

Pete’s still smiling as he says it, though. And Myka remains smiling, too, but she does give a slight eye-roll at his seemingly random comment.

“Thanks Pete.”

He chuckles just a little at her dead-pan response, letting his own head fall back onto his head-rest so that they are kind of mimicking each other’s positions in the car – quietly talking as the universe goes slower and slower around them, as the car continues to move though neither of them are driving, as Myka gets her wish and is able to make these precious seconds linger.

“But you’ve changed since then and all for the better, too. I mean… you’re still Myka. Still the book-worm, still Artie’s favorite—“  
“I’m… I’m not Artie’s favorite…”  
“C’mon, Mykes, you know that you are. Every parent picks a favorite and you are it.”

And for a moment, in her slowed-down world, the air in Myka’s lungs turns into an unmoving fist - a reaction that is vaguely reminiscent of others she has experienced in this dream-world; it is the sensation of reality and unreality blending together, tugging at her senses like hundreds of hands, until it feels as though she is being torn into.

_Sisterly standards never, ever met and never, ever forgotten… A cold voice of disapproval from around the dog-eared corners of some novel in my hand…_

But then there is the gentlest of touches to the edge of her chin. And her eyes focus once more on Pete, on Pete’s reassuring smile and on Pete’s surprisingly tender fingertips upon her face.

And just like Helena knew that Myka was hiding something up on that roof, Pete knows that Myka is in a moment of slight distress.

So, Pete does what he always does – in this world or in any other world– and calms Myka down again.

And to the outsider looking in, this whole scenario might look almost romantic.

But Myka knows better than that.

There are people out there who can know another person so well simply because they are so much alike – their minds create the same fantasies, their hearts ache for the same things, their paths merge so perfectly that, sometimes, it seems as if they are one person instead of two.

_We are women racing through time, dreamers with wicked minds… Helena and I are lit up by supernovas of desire; we are built of the same cosmic dust._

Pete’s hand slips away, gradually falling down to the middle console in this car, but they remain looking at one another.

“Just always remember that this is where you belong, Mykes - here, at the Warehouse and with all of us. You don’t have to hide anymore because this is your home.”

And then there are those people who can know another person so well because they are allowed in, past the baggage and beyond the walls of protection - and it’s almost a greater act of trust to let in the one who doesn’t fully know you than it is to keep a hold of the one who inherently does.

And in that other world, Pete would have asked Myka to look away as he spoke; in that other world, Pete would have followed up these words with a defeated sigh of how ‘girly’ he was being.

_In that other world, I’ve shut him out and kept him in the dark – more than once. In that other world, Pete, all I ever do is hide._

But in this world, Myka is reminded of her good friend and partner, Pete Lattimer – and it is this thought that brings the sheen of tears to Myka’s eyes. Pete looks away then, hands going to the steering wheel in a move that is more like what a non-dream Pete would do and clears his throat needlessly.

“Wow, your excuse must be pretty damn lame if you think crying will get you out of trouble…”

Myka laughs as she wipes a hand over her face, then she reaches over to very lightly shove Pete’s shoulder.

And he smiles over at her and she smiles in return. And it is so much like it used to be.

And Pete is right - Myka doesn’t have to hide a single thing, at least not in this world.

_Because, in this world, everything is exactly as it should be…_

Myka notices that Pete’s smile seems to falter a little bit now and that the colors seem to be fading outside of these car windows, as if she were closing her eyes without knowing it. And it feels like she is sinking further into this seat, boneless and heavy, as the sound of Pete’s voice goes from a low murmur to nothing at all.

_…your lips move but I can’t hear what you’re saying…***_

And as the numbness slips so comfortably over her body, Myka’s make-believe day begins to falter.

: : :

_Were you able to hug your parents enough to make up for all the times you missed out on? Did you tell them how much you love them, how much you miss them, how much you still need them in your life?_

_And did any of it matter to you once you were awake again?_

_If anyone were to know, it would be you, Bethany Jackson._

_But I doubt that I’d have the courage to ask you these things and I doubt that you would answer me._

_I think I understand you, though… if only just a little bit… if only in this moment, with these shoes on my feet and the thundering sound of my own heart battling hard within my chest…_

_…I think I understand every person who has ever put these ruby-red slippers on._

_I think I understand, so completely and so totally, the rules a person can break in order to make sense of incredible sorrow. I think I truly understand Claudia and the metronome now._

_I think I finally understand Helena, too._

_And if you were standing in front of me right now, Bethany, I could tell you that none of us are wrong for wanting our own happily-ever-after. None of us are wrong for feeling so lost that we would grab onto anything – a drink, a new identity, an artifact – in order to feel whole again._

_We aren’t wrong, Bethany._

_But we are not right either._

_And I know that nothing in this dream will ever be enough… but, Bethany, it’s a start…_

_…Isn’t it?_

: : :

There is a theory that every person in a dream is just a part of the dreamer – the faces of friends, family and lovers are merely facets of the dreamer’s personality, brought to surreal life like inner-therapists as one sleeps the night away.

If this theory is true and if even an artifact-induced slumber is just another chance for Myka’s own subconscious to speak and to be heard, then every pair of eyes that is currently looking at her is only a mirror of the many gazes within Myka’s mind.

_And by the expressions on their faces, I’d say that I am kind of freaked out._

“Myka, can you tell me what exactly happened?”  
“I already told them, Mykes, but you know Artie—“  
“The more we know, the better we will be equipped to figure out what is wrong.”  
“Jeez, Myka, you really scared me there for a second. I did a scan on you and your heartbeat was so erratic—“  
“Pete says you didn’t come into contact with Buzz Aldrin’s boots at all, so I think we can rule out that—“  
“It’s like you just, sort of, passed out or something, Mykes. I couldn’t wake you up, though, and rushed you into the Warehouse…”

Artie, Pete and Claudia continue to talk over each other, relaying the details of Myka’s unexplainable fainting spell. Their communal worry and concern is something Myka is used to; it is a familiar security she can latch onto as that ‘erratic’ heart of hers starts to beat more normally.

But her still too tired head turns languidly in the direction of the voices she has yet to hear.

She glances at Steve, standing just to the left and behind Claudia, and his stare is one of caring – but it is of curiosity as well. In that other world, Steve could see through deceptions and masks; in that other world, Steve would have caught her in this incredible lie, like a spider trapped by their own web.

In this world, though, Steve remains silently inquisitive – as if he suspects something but is unable to put his finger on the solution.

_Of course, if everyone in this dream is me, then I guess I am just stalling for more time._

Then Myka’s eyes move further along and that’s where she finds Helena waiting.

The woman has her arms crossed and is leaning against the wall, obviously having found a good place to watch what is going on – and all without getting ensnared in the babbling conversation that is happening around Myka’s reclining body.

Much like Steve, Helena’s look is one of care mixed with puzzlement – those dark eyes roam over Myka’s face like an archeologist over a new find and, again, instead of causing Myka to feel exposed…

_…I feel so hopelessly in love._

And that is when the sweetest of fragrances begins to fill up the room.

“I… I think I smell…” Myka’s throat is dry when she attempts to talk, so the words come out sounding choked and rough.

Both Pete and Artie respond with a somewhat-terrified cry of ‘Fudge?’ but Myka is shaking her head in the negative. Her senses are blinking back to life quickly as she inhales this clean, crisp aroma – one that only she appears to be aware of – and this delicious scent washes over her like an invisible wave.

_It smells like apples._

: : :

There was a lot that Helena never told Myka.

There was a lot of pain that was never fully expressed and there was a lot of anger that was never dealt with either – between them, around them, involving them. They were always starting conversations that never got finished, due to hundred-year-old mistakes or technological imprisonment.

_Or death. Don’t forget about that one._

Myka could not say a damn thing she wanted to on that day.

All she did was allow the tears to gather at the edge of eyes; all she could do was bow her head and look away as fate stripped her of another bittersweet romance.

And Myka never questioned the meaning of that ‘thank you’; Helena was a woman out of time and Myka’s belief in her was one last chance at getting these intangible things right.

‘I smell apples’, though, lurked in Myka’s head for so long that the phrase started to take on a million meanings other than the obvious – _was it some kind of code? Was it in some story I cannot recall? Is it Heaven? Is it Christina? Does it mean she has finally found peace?_

On some of those long nights, when sleep was but a distant memory, Myka liked to tell herself that ‘I smell apples’ was ‘I love you’ in another language – a language that Helena must have been proficient in but that Myka could barely struggle her way through.

And on a few of those long nights, Myka actually believed that little tale she weaved within her heart.

But she’d look around at all the empty spaces, all the spaces where Helena should have been, and the story would just fray and fall apart again.

_Because ‘I smell apples’ really only meant ‘good-bye’._

: : :

Claudia’s voice is becoming panicked again, talking about how Myka’s heart-rate is accelerating too quickly. And Pete is taking a hold of her hands, all warmth and fear, as he begs Artie to figure out what is going on with his partner. Artie is a blur of movement, artifact files flying like birds around the room and questions barreling out of him like shots fired off.

It is Helena that has captured most of Myka’s attention, though.

And the woman is looking right back at Myka with an unflinchingly open stare – no secrets this time, no hidden agendas, no old sorrows covered up by new masks.

Myka’s body is lifting upwards before her mind catches up, ignoring the protests of her friends as they beg her to stay still, to stay lying down, to stay motionless and to let them figure out what is wrong.

_But what is wrong is only everything, isn’t that right, Bethany? Because no matter how good it may feel, it’ll never be real… and this is only a chance, just a crazy damn chance, to say good-bye…_

“I smell apples.” Myka whispers and she reaches out a hand for Helena.

And there is no barrier separating them, no ticking time-bomb left behind by a mad man; there is only this moment – the one that Myka lied for, that Myka stole for – and that is all there will ever be.

: : :

The steps still creak and groan under their footfalls, but other than that, all is quiet in this bed & breakfast. The walls catch their shadows as they pass by them, shades in-flux in the dying of the sunlight – there one minute, gone the next. And the door opens on a dusty room, with a bed still unmade and curtains still drawn against the afternoon; a shirt lays carelessly over the back of a chair and a number of books are strewn upon the floor and the scent of apples gives way to something harder to fully define.

Like leather-bound text or left-over gunpowder, there is something quite lovely in the air in this room – antiquated and soothing at the same time – and Myka’s gaze flutters shut as it fills up her senses.

“I remember coming in here one time, after doing inventory all day, and my first instinct was to kick off my shoes, to flex my toes and stretch and then maybe settle down for a long nap.”

Fingertips move against Myka’s palm and then those fingers turn until they can interlock with Myka’s own.

“And then I looked over at your desk, covered up in notes and devices picked apart, and you were sitting there with a pencil between your lips. I wanted to see what you were doing more than anything but I knew I shouldn’t ask, I knew that you needed time to adjust to this new world you were living in and that you needed space…”

Myka’s eyes stay closed as she speaks, allowing only the breath it takes to keep talking and acknowledging the subtle presence of Helena’s hand within her own by holding on just a little tighter than before.

“…But, in that moment, I felt this ache inside of me… I felt like I had found something amazing and that, somehow, it was mine to protect and that it was mine to cherish. In that moment, while you were tinkering with the end of the world, I was falling in love with you.”

Helena’s hand drifts away and Myka’s eyes open again.

And there, in that chair and at that desk, sits Helena – as if Myka had just left the woman there seconds ago instead of more than a year; pencil between the lips and concentration so beautifully poised upon the woman’s brow, with stains of smudged lead on rolled up sleeves as elbows bear down on endless sketches.

In that other world, Myka quietly turned around and left Helena’s room, saving all her questions and interest for another day, another hour, another time in a future that she didn’t know would never exist.

But this is Myka’s dream and so, this time, Myka does not leave.

“Hey.”

Helena sort of jumps and sort of spins around in her seat at the sound of Myka’s voice, that look of intense focus melting away to a hint of shock and annoyance – but then even that look fades even more to one of possible amusement and relief.

“Myka, god, you startled me. I’m afraid I was in some rather deep wool-gathering.”

Myka murmurs a ‘sorry’ and then slowly pushes the door open further, her hip digging into the doorframe as she leans there. Helena is twirling the pencil between her fingers and a nice smile finds its way to the woman’s lips.

“Would you like to come in?”  
“Only if I am not bothering you…?”  
“You are never a bother, Agent Bering.”

And that nice smile becomes a little nicer still, growing more indulgent at the corners. And so Myka matches that sight with a grin of her own as she leaves behind the rest of the bed & breakfast, as she steps fully into Helena’s room and then reaches back to shut the door – a single click and they are the only two people in the entire universe.

Myka takes a deep breath and Helena is watching her closely – but it is not a scrutinizing gaze at all. And if Myka were to take a guess at the sentiment rolling off of Helena’s stare, she would say it looks a lot like fondness and affection.

Myka would say that it looks a lot like the beginning of an impossible love.

“I really like your room.” Myka says as she finally exhales and Helena breaks their gazing by glancing around.  
“It’s a bit untidy at the moment…” Helena replies, hand still spinning that pencil around and around.

“It smells good, though.”

Helena brings her gaze back to Myka and it is lit up with calm sort of inquisitiveness, easily inviting Myka to explain the meaning of her comment.

“Maybe it’s because I grew up in a bookstore but, when I am in your room with all your books, I am returned to a good part of my childhood… I am back with those tattered pages and the black ink and the never-ending stories. And it’s kind of comforting to me.”

Helena’s nice smile goes all warm then, as if she understands what Myka means at some level that no one else has ever reached. And Myka actually feels like she will start crying, which is something she doesn’t want to do – _not now, not when I still have so much to say_ – but that shuddering sensation is filling up her throat nonetheless.

“Then you should come in here whenever you like, Myka… Consider my room your own.”

Myka takes another deep breath to try and hold the tears at bay as she nods her head in acceptance of Helena’s offer. And Myka’s arms are already moving of their own accord, hands working deftly to untie the laces on her boots, and then she is pushing them off - one foot at a time - until they topple unceremoniously upon the floorboards.

And Helena does not appear confused nor concerned at Myka’s actions.

Instead, the woman lets the pencil drop to the desktop and gets up from that chair, coasting towards Myka as though they were both standing on air; instead, the woman gently guides Myka to that unmade bed and encourages Myka to lie down, to be enveloped by sheets still heavy with Helena's body-heat.

And so when Myka next inhales, she breathes in everything that is Helena.

They are side by side and Myka is following the slow back and forth of dark lashes near pale skin. And Myka doesn’t want to blink; Myka doesn’t want to forget this or misplace this – she just wants to pull Helena closer as they rest on this bed together and she just wants to make a thousand promises that will never be fulfilled.

“I love you.”

And it happens just like that.

Every declaration never spoken, every poem never recited, every invention never used and every thirst never quenched – and it happens just like that, all that they never said to one another when that pivotal moment arrived…

_…as you tried to tell me a lifetime worth of stories with a look…_

“I love you, too.”

And it is just Myka and Helena kissing, for the last time ever, as this daydream finally grinds to a halt.

/ /

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *= from The Time Machine  
> **= from The Island of Dr. Moreau  
> ***= from Comfortably Numb by Pink Floyd


	7. Chapter 7

/ /

_“You do know that, if any of this were real, you’d be dismissed immediately.”_

/

There is a weak-willed attack happening beneath her bones – constricting her heart to the point of pain – and that’s how she wakes up again.

She tries to move first, tries to get her muscles to work like they should, but her arms just shake violently when she attempts to use them. And her legs feel like lead, so useless against this mattress, but she forces frozen knees to bend – agonizing inch by agonizing inch – until they do not ache so much as they just endlessly burn.

And there, at the edge of her hazy sleep-stare, is a flash of red.

And it hurts a lot to move; it hurts a lot to push the air into her lungs and it hurts a lot to shift stiff fingers into the purple gloves she left on this hotel bed – resting on a pillow like a silent lover.

It hurts a lot to shove those ruby-red slippers off of her cramping feet.

All of this hurts a whole damn lot, though.

And suddenly the room around her starts to melt.

The colors were already unclear due to her reawakened vision being so blurry, but now the beiges and the off-whites are running down into the floor – like an abstract painting or like fresh ink caught in a thunderstorm – and this is reality as it turns into a terrible sort of art form.

This is what a hotel room in the middle of nowhere looks like as Myka’s tears fall from her eyes.

/

_“I know. I know that, if you were really here… I could lose everything.”_

/

The clock tells her that is has been a little more than a day.

It has been a day and four hours and forty-three minutes, to be exact.

And it feels strange to walk again, with booted feet so heavy against the carpeted hallway; it feels strange to look around and to see everything in such a 'regular' light - no longer a soft hue around the edges, no longer a gorgeous gauze over the faces.

The hotel clerk nods his head at her as she signs her receipt and then eyes her closely when she pays in cash. But he does not ask questions as he hands over the envelope, a cry for help that never needed to be opened, and he’ll forget about this name on the registry – even if that name is ‘Harry M. Smith’* and it belongs to a woman.

The hotel clerk will forget about all of this.

Myka is the only one who will actually remember.

/

_“Was it worth it, Agent Bering?”_

/

The window is open and, this time, she can feel the air slide across her face – so cool without the sun to warm it, carrying the phantoms of diesel trucks with each caress. She can hear the engine as it runs and she can hear the press of tires to the highway. She can feel the way her fingers grip the steering wheel so tightly, white-knuckled hold onto reality as she breaks speed limits.

And there are seconds where she feels like she will faint; where she feels like she will just fall back against this leather seat and shut her eyes as this automobile careens from blacktop to dirt.

But she continues to hold tightly onto the steering wheel as she forces herself to breathe in the reality of this world once again.

This world, returned to her with a gasping breath and a crushing weight upon her chest.

This world, where there is never enough time and where there are no guarantees.

/

_“Yes. I believe it was.”_

/

And it feels a little bit like flying low to the ground.

It feels a little bit like being yanked up into the heavens by nothing more than some wire and a strong arm about the waist.

It feels a little bit like a first kiss; it feels a little bit like being in love while perched on top of the universe.

It feels a little bit like the best dream in the world – right before it ends.

/

_“…Then I can only hope that you are correct, Agent Bering, and that the ends truly do justify the means.”_

/

Mrs. Frederic never showed her impassive face within that artifact-dream, remaining conveniently absent from Myka’s gaze. Like Steve and his ability to tell fact from fiction, Mrs. Frederic presented an ever-present danger inside of Myka’s active mind – like an internal warden always just around the corner.

And so Myka must have chosen to keep the woman away from this bout of secret slumbering.

But the conversation is happening anyway.

And Myka tells herself that it could be a side-effect to using an artifact. Myka tells herself that it could just be the very familiar beginnings of guilt, easily manifesting itself in the voice of Mrs. Frederic.

Myka tells herself that she might still be asleep after-all and that maybe Mrs. Frederic is the last person she will ever interact with; the two of them talking about cause and effect as Myka’s body starts to waste away.

But the conversation is happening.

And even though Myka knows that this is what she had to do – she had to change the rules, just like a very wise woman once said – her response is still colored with doubt.

/

_“That’s what I am hoping for, too.”_

/

Sitting in the driveway as the sun makes itself known in the sky, Myka finally turns on her cell-phone and the Farnsworth; both of them light up with messages missed and frantic calls gone unheard.

And she remembers how strange it was to walk back into the Warehouse, all those long days ago, and feel guarded instead of overjoyed. It was strange to stand there and wonder if she’d be welcomed back, to wonder if she’d manage to fill out the spaces that she alone had left behind.

It was strange, at first, but ever so slowly the silence retreated and there was wonderful noise again – the hum of the Tesla in her hand, Pete’s laughter in her ears, Claudia’s voice skipping behind her like an excitable kid.

Ever so slowly, Myka retraced her steps and found the way home once more.

But Myka doesn’t feel the same amount of trepidation this time around. She doesn’t feel nervous or unsure. She isn’t wondering about acceptance or about being understood.

Myka just feels tired.

It is as if all the lost hours of rest have caught up with her and it takes incredible effort to peel her fingers from around the steering wheel, to push the driver’s side door open, to move her feet from gravel to a painted front porch.

For a second, though, her hand hovers over the doorknob and Myka closes her eyes.

And she listens.

She listens for movement inside of Leena’s. She listens for the familiar footfalls of Pete as he thunders down the stairs or the bellowing of Artie’s voice from around a corner. She listens for the call to breakfast and for the sound of conversation that normally follows.

Myka listens for any sign at all that this world is worth more than the one she found under the influence of an artifact, that this world won’t end up ruining them, one by one…

…But Myka knows better.

She’s always known better.

This world is as cruel as it is beautiful; this world gives and this world takes - without forethought, without prejudice. This world, with its unending capabilities for both goodness and horribleness, is always the quiet entity in the room; this world is always the solemn sentry that keeps watch while bodies rot and while mountains crumble.

Myka has always known better than to try and make this world talk, than to try and make this world explain itself.

_“Hate turns so easily into fear… Don’t walk away from your truth.”_

Helena demanded answers from the world and got nothing in return – and so the woman walked away; into the bronzer, into the web of time, into the kind of sorrow that can kill a person’s soul.

_“Hate turns so easily into fear…”_

And more than a hundred years ago, Helena stood at a door and listened with intent. Helena listened for a child’s feet upon the floor or for the minutes to wind backwards like air being sucked out of a room.

But the only sound the woman heard was the deafening peal of silence.

_“…Don’t walk away from your truth.”_

Helena’s words, once said so softly and with such weary hindsight, run through Myka’s mind as she opens the door to the bed-and-breakfast.

And it is nothing but silence that greets Myka.

_“…Don’t walk away…”_

It could just be a memory that Myka is replaying as she stands motionless in this quiet foyer; just another faded reel that has gone through the loops a hundred times before.

_“…Don’t walk away…”_

It could just be the slick and seductive residue from using an artifact that is sliding over Myka’s brain, clouding her common sense just like Mrs. Frederic’s phantom disapproval.

But maybe it really is Helena reaching out, from somewhere just shy of oblivion, to share these pearls of hard-won insight.

_Somewhere in the blue-green strands of an aurora’s tail, there you are, still knowing me better than anyone else… isn’t that right, Helena?_

Maybe Helena is still trying to save Myka Bering from herself.

“I’m not walking away…” Myka says aloud, her own voice so low and so delicate when surrounded by all this stillness, “…I’m just trying to get back home again.”

/ /

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *= from ‘The Dream’ by H.G. Wells
> 
> Also: to anyone who might have read this at FF.Net - I did alter the chapter layout, but not the content.


	8. Chapter 8

/ /

Each face holds a little something different, along lines grown over time or at the edge of lips; each face tells its own story and, if one is used to reading such things, then what a face can tell a person is just as good as hearing words falling from the tongue.

Her father used to have this cold line that ran through his eyes, like a sudden bolt of a blinding blackness, and she’d catch a glimpse of it if she looked for too long – during an argument where he was the only one speaking or right before he’d dismiss whatever choice she might be making that he did not approve of.

On his face read the story of subtle sacrifices and of stunted dreams; of yearnings lost in between pages, desires yellowed with time and with decay.

She learned to look away.

But that’s a young girl no longer around – or, at least, not around much anymore. Of course, that girl still pops her head over the countertop on occasion. If a new artifact is particularly amazing or if there is actually a good book to read as the nighttime wanders in, then that young girl turns a secret smile out towards the world.

Right now, though, that young girl is gone.

And the adult standing in that young girl’s place is using every bit of willpower left to not look away.

_Don’t walk away. Don’t you even think about walking away._

The faces opposite of her are deafening, though.

And what wounded tale should she try and decipher first? Whose story should she fall into and then work to complete?

Will it be Artie, with his mixture of disappointment and weary understanding ( _a single sentence resting heavy on his brow_ )? Or should it be Leena, with her tired smile full of muted pain ( _a cursive lament running the length of her jaw_ )? Or should it be Pete, with his big-brother gaze trained just past her head ( _a torrent of phrases and confessions stamped on his chin and underneath his eyes_ ) and arms crossed over his chest…?

But Myka is fairly certain that none of these stories will quite match the one that glares the hardest from against the wall, spine as stiff as newly bound leather upon the shelf.

There’s a whole novel scratched out on Claudia’s face, written down with every dark hour that has passed, and there are passages that even the most dedicated bibliophile could never trace the origins of. There are a multitude of accusations waiting impatiently upon Claudia lips, harkening back to a conversation held only days ago – _the two of us, in the living room, with the metronome and with our restless grief_ – and Myka isn’t sure she’ll ever be able to defend her actions to the younger woman.

_“…And don’t you dare tell me that you wouldn’t do the same for someone you truly care for…”_

And it’s the same thing ( _a metronome or a pair of enchanted shoes_ ), but it’s not the same thing at all. It’s a terrible case of splitting hairs and it probably won’t solve the problem at hand – it won’t completely explain Myka’s insubordination or fix Claudia’s determined rage.

But honesty is the only hand that Myka has left to play these days.

“I know what I’ve done is wrong and if this course of action has wrecked the trust you have in me… I’ll understand. I’ll take whatever punishment the regents have in mind for me, but I won’t stand here and say that I am sorry for what I did, for taking an artifact and using it…”

The words are becoming clearer to comprehend now, each one embedded deeper along the skin of the people listening to her so quietly.

 _You didn’t think this through, did you? And now you could be taken away from me…_ Artie’s stare moves to the table, burning holes into something tangible because this isn’t how any of this is supposed to be.  
 _You’re the last one that I thought would break like this…_ Leena ever so slowly looks to the floor, as if the auras all around the woman are too much to take in.  
 _Why didn’t you come to me? You always take off instead of coming to me…_ Pete’s eyes manage a space somewhere between hard and vulnerable as they refuse to look away from Myka’s face.  
 _You’re just a fucking hypocrite, that’s all you are…_ Claudia’s gaze is perfectly cool, though, and there isn’t a hint of softness to be found within the younger woman’s visage.

Myka has to swallow down her fears now, has to push back the urge to beg or cry or a thousand other reactions that probably wouldn’t serve her very well in this moment.

And Myka has to keep reminding her feet to stay put, too.

_“…Don’t walk away from your truth…”_

Like an invisible hand in her own, Myka continues to draw strength from Helena; to draw confidence from a memory and from one of her fondest wishes and from every moment that the two of them ever shared – real or otherwise.

“…I didn’t want to bring anyone back, to bring the Warehouse back. God knows, I wish I could. I wish I could just snap my fingers and end this nightmare we’ve been living in… There’s no way I can do that, though. And I… I needed to say good-bye. I didn’t even get the chance to really say good-bye and it has been killing me from the inside-out…”

Claudia’s eyes are so sharp that Myka thinks she can feel her own flesh splitting open, layers of muscle being pulled back until Myka is exposed to the entire world. But, of course, stopping now is not an option. If any of them are to survive past this day, there is no corner that can be left in the dark.

“…It’s been killing me and I thought this would make it better. I thought that seeing the Warehouse again, that seeing all of us happy again, would help me to not feel so damn lost. And I wanted to feel good again. I wanted to pretend that I could sleep through the night and wake up with the world intact once more… But it wasn’t like that at all. It was just a dream. And there wasn’t ever going to be enough time to say all that I wanted to say. All I had were fragments of what used to be and what never was… It was just a damn dream and a part of me thinks that I’ve just made it worse for myself, you know? Because even though I knew it wasn’t real, I had everything I ever wanted… and then I had to let it go.”

It looks like Pete is holding his breath. It looks like he wants so badly to get up and wrap her up in his arms, to strip away her pain and replace it with the surety they all used to feel. This Pete looks a lot like the one in Myka’s dream, as if he knows more than he’ll ever let on and as if his hands alone are the ones to catch her as she falls. But the ground is rushing up to meet her nonetheless and there’s no stopping any of this now.

“And it hurts. All of this hurts so fucking much and I’m not sure if I’ll ever get over it... but I came back. I came back because this is my home. This is my home and you are my family. And I want all of us to be okay again. I don’t want false promises and I don’t want to act like everything is fine when it isn’t but I can’t do this alone anymore… I don’t know why I ever thought I could. I need you, Pete. And I need you, Artie, and you, Leena…”

And it’s not just Pete or Claudia looking at her now; it is all four of them. As if held suspended by her voice, they watch her and they wait in silence. They wait for her to finish this story, once and for all.

_Just waiting for me to click those heels one more time…_

“And you, Claudia, I need you… Because I can’t lose another person that I love…”

The anger doesn’t go away so much as it twists and turns in the younger woman’s face, mixing with sadness and tiredness. And the tears escape anyway, breaking past the defenses that Claudia has maintained since Steve was taken away from them.

“…I can’t lose you, Claude, so please… don’t use the metronome… and don’t walk away from me, from all of us.”

Claudia sort of laughs but it sounds sort of like a sob instead. Then she pushes off the wall with a rough shove, spinning on the balls of her booted feet and is out of the room like a shot. Pete is up automatically, ready to give chase, but Myka raises her hands in a motion to stop him.

“Let me be the one to go after her, okay?”   
“Mykes, I don’t know—“  
“Pete, I’ll bring her back. Trust me.”

Pete’s smile is more incredulous than pleased and he runs a hand over his head in frustration.

“You took an artifact and used it. You disappeared and didn’t tell anyone where you were going. You shut me out again, Myka, and you want me to trust you now? You want me to stand here and let you be the one to try and talk Claudia out of bringing Steve back to life… Why should I do that?”

But Pete isn’t looking to be proven right; he is looking to be proven wrong. He is searching Myka’s face relentlessly, looking for the shade and the shape of his best friend.

“I wasn’t going to leave this time, Pete. I was always going to come back. Always.”

And the air pushes out of his mouth, an exhalation that says so much more than can ever be put into words, and then he nods his head.

“Okay. Okay, bring her back, Mykes. I’ll be right here if you need me… I’ll be right here.”

And Myka smiles at him, a real smile that hasn’t seen the light of day in far too long ( _except in a dream... in a wonderful, wonderful dream…_ )

“I’m counting on that, Lattimer.”

/ /


	9. Chapter 9

/ /

It’s not hard for Myka to track Claudia’s movements away from the bed-and-breakfast, but that’s only because Claudia doesn’t seem to care about being found or not. If Claudia had really wanted to disappear, Myka knows that the younger woman could easily make that happen.

Instead, Myka follows the trail left behind by determined feet and it leads to where all those who are lost want to go – home.

Or the semblance of home, the ghost of what used to be home; now, it is just metal girders and the beginning of walls and smooth pallets of fresh concrete. Warehouse 13 – _our home, our everything_ – is just a memory now, quick to be replaced and renamed out here in reality. But Myka’s eyes still strain to see what has been destroyed and she suspects that Claudia’s gaze is doing the very same thing.

And it is just the two of them, standing side by side, staring at where there used to be shelves lined with artifacts; staring at where hallways used to hold laughter and wonder and purpose. Myka’s eyes hurt from all that should be in front of them but that is not, so she looks at Claudia instead. Myka takes in hands that clench and unclench, as if they do not know what to do with themselves. And Myka catches the sheen of tears as they silently fall down Claudia’s face, as the sadness gathers at the chin and then hits the ground.

Myka watches as Claudia teeters between fury and hopelessness, between ideas of right and wrong, between now and once upon a time.

And while Myka Bering is usually one for plans, for strategic methods and standard protocols, life is never that simple to manage.

_Sometimes, you just have to wing it. Sometimes, you have to break your own rules._

Myka grabs a hold of one of those clenching-and-unclenching hands, interlacing those rigid fingers with her own, and then she turns her whole body into Claudia’s. She moves quietly and swiftly, slipping her other arm around Claudia’s waist and pulls the younger woman to her.

And it is just the two of them, standing together, as Claudia’s soft weeping soaks into Myka’s shirt.

/

“What was it like in your dream?”

At some point, Claudia’s crying stops. At some point, they let go of each other and slide, unceremoniously, to the ground. At some point, the morning gives way to the late afternoon and shadows now hovered over their faces; the new warehouse is nothing more than a disjointed skeleton against the dirt and sand.

“It was good… But it was too good to be true.”

At some point, their eyes meet and quietly hold. At some point, Claudia exhales so deeply that Myka feels her own muscles relax in response. At some point, they move and sit closer to one another; shoulders pressed together like soldiers in a foxhole – _it’s do or die time again._

“I’ve had dreams like that. About my parents, about Joshua… when I thought he was really dead…”

At some point, the sun starts its lazy descent from the sky and everything turns a golden red. At some point, on the distant horizon, a few stars start to turn on their astronomical charms. At some point, Claudia leans heavier onto Myka’s shoulder and the neediness of this gesture – _the heartbreaking tenderness of this moment_ – almost causes Myka to breakdown for the hundredth time in so many days.

“I’ve been having dreams of using the metronome, of Steve being alive again…and then he just walks through the door, like Sykes never existed, like a bomb didn’t just obliterate the coolest fucking place on this planet, like the Regents never lied to us… I’ve been having these really wonderful, really shitty dreams, Myka… and I want them to stop. I just want all of this to stop hurting so damn much.”

At some point, Myka’s arm is around Claudia and her fingers are gripping the younger woman’s side like a rope when one is drowning. At some point, the heavens grow dark and constellations play an ancient game of connect-the-dots. At some point, each of their Farnsworth’s rings out with questions – _Are you okay? When are you coming back? Please… don’t be gone too long…_

“Me, too, Claudia… Me, too.”

At some point, Myka tells a bittersweet story about love found, about love lost and Claudia listens without speaking; Myka’s voice is warm and Claudia takes comfort in the sound of it. At some point, they both look up to the nighttime sky and whisper good-byes that only the dead can hear.

And they know that, at some point, it won’t hurt as much as it does right now. At some point, the wounds will turn to scars and even those scars will gently fade away.

At some point, this brave new world will make sense once again.

/

Pete-hugs are always pretty special.

And this is one is no less spectacular, but it is not as goofy as it once would have been. It is a serious sort of thing and the ‘old’ Myka would have felt strange in this Pete’s embrace.

But ‘new’ Myka returns the favor, holding on just as tightly.

And then she is stepping back, then she is pulling Claudia forward and watching as Pete envelopes the younger woman. And the two of them stay that way for a while, with Artie close by and Leena smiling through some tears… or crying through some joy… or both.

They are all sort of crying, all sort of grinning.

They are all sort of healing.

_Finally._

/

And at some point, Myka slips away to her bedroom. She sinks down onto the mattress and allows the tiredness to cover her body up; she is all fluttering eyelids and increasingly heavy limbs.

But before slumber can overtake her, Myka reaches out to the table by her bed and there it is – right where she left it, after everything went so wrong… 

_…Helena’s locket._

And at some point, Myka falls asleep – the first real sleep she has had in weeks – with that locket held fast in her hands.

/

_“It’s a funny sort of thing, watching you sleep… Sometimes, your lips move, like you are trying to speak but cannot find the energy to do so… ”_

_Myka keeps her eyes closed but an amused smile slides sleepily across her face. And one of her hands leaves the cocoon of bed-sheets and wanders over towards that voice, fingers lightly dancing over what feels like an arm - all soft and smooth._

_“…And just where do you think you’re going, Agent Bering?”_

_Myka sighs in hazy contentment and turns towards that lilting question, wanting to burrow her face into this fantasy for as long as she can._

_“Nowhere. At least… not until morning.”_

_She can feel the bed shift, feel her own body dip to the right, feel the heat from the proximity of another person. And Myka’s hand moves as if underwater, languid passage from elbow to shoulder and back again; she is creating a map that no eye can ever truly see._

_Then there is the firm press of lips against Myka’s forehead._

_“Until morning then.”_

/

And for a second, when Myka opens her eyes and the sun blinds her because of curtains never closed, Myka swears that Helena is beside her – _smiling like it’s the end of the world and there is nothing left to lose, nothing left to hide…_

Myka blinks, though, and her room returns in sharp focus… and she is alone.

“Just another dream…”

But her fingers instinctually flex and the locket is still there within them, so Myka curls up on her side and studies this piece of Helena that she has been left with.

Because that’s what it is, after-all – it is a part of Helena’s soul, the very best part, when the woman was ready to save the world and protect the future; from a time when the woman believed in the good of everyone and, especially, in the good of herself.

And Myka finally knows all that Helena was trying to say that day, with a ‘thank you’ and the scent of sweet fruit swirling around; with a barrier once more keeping them apart, keeping them separate.

_You believed in yourself again, didn’t you, Helena? You believed in the Warehouse and in the days to come…_

Myka finally knows that she can truly say those words out loud and not just in some artifact-induced dream, not just in a shadowy whisper; she can say those words to anyone who may ask about H.G. Wells and want to know why Myka always smiles, to anyone who mentions the inventor’s name and wants to know why Myka’s eyes always gather such an affectionate hue.

_…You no longer believed yourself to be broken, isn’t that true, Helena? You wanted to rescue the world once more…_

And Myka finally knows that her love for this unimaginably beautiful and damaged woman was never unrequited; they were in love with one another long before Myka could pinpoint the feeling and long before Helena could let go of the past, long before betrayals and bombs and terrible farewells.

_…You believed in what you felt for me and you saved me, Helena…_

_That’s what you did, Helena, you saved me…_

/

And there, in the sunlight, she holds up Helena’s locket and watches it twist and spin; she watches Helena’s heart burn all golden and lovely as it turns and turns.

“I love you, too.”

/ / /

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (END)
> 
> I prefer hopeful endings, not perfect ones. Plus, this story gave me an excuse to explore ‘The Wizard of Oz’ in a much deeper manner than I ever had before.  
> Thanks to anyone who read this thing - it is appreciated.


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